Lately i've been feeling lost, adrift, missing the warm weight of His
dominance. Every wave of His hand as He casually dismissed one of my
apologies for a missed task was like punch in the gut. After much
introspective thought and the lending of a few kind ears, i had come to a
conclusion. After two years with Sir, the fact that i was still
expecting reinforcement on the most basic of things was kind of
laughable. He has already put in more than enough work to get me up to
speed on those things, and how could He possible improve me further if i
couldn't prove aptitude in those basic procedures when left to my own
devices?
Le sigh.
The spiral successfully brought to a halt, and bolstered by the same
epiphany i must have had half a dozen times already this past year, i
brought the subject up to Sir. i told Him everything i had been feeling,
and everything i had been thinking, and the conclusions i had come to.
He listened intently, making a few comments here and there, but mostly
just letting me get it all out.
He seemed satisfied with my analysis, and a comfortably pensive
silence followed, only to be broken by the most horrific command i could
ever dread to hear.
"Go eat an olive."
i balked, "NO, You can't mean it!!!" and covered my face with my hands, tears already springing to my eyes.
"Go. Eat. An. Olive."
Sir has been threatening to force me to eat olives ever since i was
dumb enough to let slip that i HATED the fucking things, almost to the
point of phobia.
For some reason, after He issued that command for a second time,
although my mind was railing against it, my body sprung to obey. i went
sobbing to the kitchen and grabbed a fork. As i rustled in the fridge to
find the jar of olives that awaited their time to garnish Sir's
martinis, it was as if i was watching myself from outside my body,
helpless to stop what was to come.
i speared one of those disgusting orbs on the tines of the fork, and
briefly reflected that olive drab was an incredibly aptly named colour.
A sudden panic gripped me. Sir told me to 'GO eat an olive'. i was to
do this alone. i flashed back to an incident from my youth, my sister
with black olives wedged onto her fingertips, chasing me while i tore
through the house, shrieking at her to get those fucking things AWAY
FROM MEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!
i suppose the me of six months ago would have mentally run through
all the possible escapes from this situation. Quietly placing the
offensive food bit into the trash bin. Hiding it in a cocktail shaker to
dispose of later. Refusing, and taking a beating instead. Alien
abductions. Anything. Surprisingly, none of those things ran through my
mind until the disgusting salt ridden green mass was already in my
mouth.
i rushed back to Sir's feet, desperately trying to chew and choke
down the olive, gagging and crying and shaking all over. i think He said
something soothing, but i can't remember anything but desperately
trying to not vomit all over myself.
Being allowed a drink to wash down the last brined chunks was the greatest blessing in recent memory.
After, i huddled at His feet, as worn and drained as any beating has
left me, and He stroked my hair and told me i was a Good Girl and He was
very proud of me.
It was the oddest thing. i was so profoundly grateful. Later, when i could muster words, i thanked Him again and again.
For making me eat a fucking olive.
